


Blood and Foam

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Humor, super powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of being the ordinary half of their bizarre crime-fighting duo, an accident leaves John with strange new abilities that he must learn to control.  John struggles to find out what has happened, who is hunting him, and how to keep the entire situation hidden from his best friend and flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a prompt from Mr. Sparkle, which was essentially “What if John had superpowers, and had to hide them from Sherlock?” Some silly input from friends and well-timed encouragement fueled the fire and here we are. BBC Sherlock with some inspiration drawn from Marvel’s universe. I’m starting with a short prologue this week, and plan to upload longer chapters every Friday if all goes well and I can keep on schedule.
> 
> Comments, suggestions, criticisms and whatever else you want to throw my way are welcome both here and on http://sparklefree.tumblr.com.

“Why do they always run?” John gasped, his sides burning from exertion. The night sky was clear, and the moon illuminated the rooftop in front of him. If they'd been outside London, he might have been able to see constellations - as it was, light pollution worked in their favor, and he darted after the shadowy form of the man they had just chased up a seven story fire escape.

“To keep you on your toes,” Sherlock answered as he ran past, his long legs outpacing John’s effortlessly. John heard the humor in Sherlock’s voice even as he gasped for air, and he chuckled, lungs burning. “Work off those fish and chips.” 

Sherlock's happiness was infectious. They'd been trying to catch the organization stealing chemicals from laboratories around London for weeks, and Sherlock had grown more and more frustrated as each continued theft occurred right under their noses. Three in as many weeks. Nothing on the security cameras, even though they hadn’t malfunctioned as far as anyone could tell.

The detective in charge of the case, Leslie Sutton, had become insufferable over the past week. That alone John could tolerate – they didn’t get on with the detectives at the Met on their best days, save for Lestrade – but the other detectives were positively gleeful at their continued failure, and last Tuesday’s theft was the headline of every paper in London. It all grated on John's nerves.

They'd had a stroke of luck earlier that evening, and the lab they'd been watching had been the target for the evening. They still hadn't seen how the man got inside, but they'd followed him out, at least.

Sherlock had slowed on the fire escape, and John cursed under his breath as Sherlock rapidly closed the distance between himself and their suspect. The man slowed, looking around as though lost as he approached the building’s edge. A street ran between this building and the next; it would be suicide to jump. And yet he began to run faster, nodding to himself.

“Oh, screw this,” John muttered, slowing to a stop as he pulled his Sig from the holster under his waistband. He listened to the rhythm of the man’s footsteps on the concrete, past Sherlock's heavier steps. Blood was rushing in his ears, but he raised the gun with practiced ease, taking the slack out of the trigger. He exhaled.

Sherlock staggered to a stop as they both watched the suspect fall, rolling on the roof with a cry and clutching at his left calf.

“Well that's hardly fair,” Sherlock called back to him. John smirked back as Sherlock turned and jogged the rest of the way to their suspect. John holstered the Sig while the man cried, clutching his leg. Sherlock picked up the bullet from where it lay next to him.

“Nine millimeter shell with two centimeters rubber coating,” Sherlock said as he knelt next to the man, smirking. He tossed the rubber bullet back to John, who caught it and shoved it into his pocket without paying attention, his attention focused on the man on the ground. “How quaint.”

“I’d rather he didn’t bleed out before he could answer our questions,” John said, kneeling on the man’s other side and looking at his leg. “It’s going to leave a hell of a bruise, though.” He looked the man over. He was taller than Sherlock, with long, scrawny legs and skinny arms. Ragged patches littered his coat, and the sleeves were several inches too short. The man shivered, the wind cutting through his worn clothing. He had dark circles under his eyes and sallow cheeks, and John couldn’t help but wonder how such a sickly man had managed to outrun both of them for so long.

“Well, it would mean less paperwork,” Sherlock said, pulling John from his thoughts. “Just leave the mess for the Met to clean up,” Sherlock smiled.

John raised his eyebrows. “There's a word for that. It's called murder.”

Sherlock waved him off. “Well, that's putting it harshly. Now,” Sherlock looked down at the man on the ground, “let’s see exactly what he managed to steal this time.”

“No,” the man gasped. “I was…. was…”

“Yes?” Sherlock leaned over him and began digging through his pockets. The man tried to curl in on himself, and Sherlock drew back, frowning. “They’re not here,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“I mean he doesn’t have anything in his pockets. What did you do with them?” Sherlock demanded. John’s heart sank; they had seen him leaving the warehouse, and they had followed him until this point. 

“He threw them somewhere?” John asked. He hadn’t seen anything; he wondered if they would be able to find them if they traced their steps back. He reached for his phone to call Detective Sutton; maybe she could arrange a search team.

Sherlock grabbed the man’s wrist, inspecting the small tattoo there before moving down to pull off the man’s shoes. “No; he’s not risking his life for this organization, he’s trying to save his own skin – they’ll kill him if he comes back empty handed. He wouldn’t have dropped them anywhere.”

“Please, I’m not trying to hurt anyone. This is important,” the man said. He shifted, trying to move away from Sherlock’s scrutiny.

"Who do you work for? What are they using the stolen chemicals and equipment for?" Sherlock asked. John knew that part bothered Sherlock the most: while he'd ruled out most explosives and other chemical experiments, he hadn't been able to figure out what the stolen goods were being used for.

The man twisted, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as he looked around the roof. He either had no answers to Sherlock's questions, or refused to give them. Either way, John decided to try a different tactic.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

The man's eyes darted back to him, and he stared for a moment as though weighing the question. “Sean,” he said finally. He wasn’t catching his breath; if anything it seemed more labored. “Sean Morrison. Please let me go. Please –“ Sean jerked, rolling onto his stomach, and John gripped his wrist, knuckles white. Sean struggled as John rolled him onto his back, only to stop and stare.

“Is he having an aneurysm?” Sherlock asked, looking up at John sharply.

Blood was staining Sean’s sclera red, the white receding as the red overtook it. John leaned closer, frowning. “No,” he shook his head, “It’s not an aneurysm.” He pressed two fingers to the man's jugular; his pulse was bounding. "He needs a hospital.”

Sean jerked, letting out a low moan as he tried to pull away from John’s hand; John wondered if he was hurting him. "Hang on," John said, trying to hold him still and examine him at the same time. "Let me help you."

"You shot him two and a half minutes ago," Sherlock pointed out, but he grabbed Sean's arms, pinning them to his sides.

John glanced up at Sherlock. “That was then. I'm helping him now."

Before Sherlock could reply Sean began to mutter under his breath, and the building gave a violent shudder under their feet. John shifted, grabbing Sherlock’s arm to steady them both. _An earthquake? Here?_ He looked around; none of the surrounding builds were shaking. Sherlock swore.

Pain erupted in the side of John’s head. His vision blurred, and he staggered to the side. When he looked up again, Sean was on the far side of the roof, nearing the ledge; he was favoring his right leg, but still moving fast. John didn’t remember letting go of him, but apparently he had. Sherlock shook him off, pushing himself to his feet and running after Sean. John looked after them both, feeling dazed. What had happened?

“How –“

Sean dropped off the ledge. John listened for the heavy clang of his boots hitting the fire escape, but heard nothing. Sherlock reached the edge a moment later, staring down as John approached.

The street was empty.

“I’m going – going to the ground floor,” Sherlock muttered as he walked past, his eyes darting around the roof. He was vibrating with barely contained anger and curiosity. “Keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

John looked at the street below a moment longer before turning, looking across the skyline.

He was alone, the cold wind whipping his face. Shivering, he pulled his coat tighter around himself. “What the hell was that?” he muttered.

The faint sound of cars on the streets below was the only reply.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock sulks, John tries to blow off steam, and a chase ends in a very bad way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I'd like to apologize for the fact that this chapter is unedited - I planned to do it, and took my kids to a fair instead. Whoops.
> 
> I forgot to mention in the prologue, as you’ll see (and have seen), I’ve changed the canon timeline a bit. No Mary, no baby. I also may leave it gen or I may add a pairing in later chapters, I’m not sure yet. (Who’s going to fuck? I don’t know! Spin the wheel.) But seriously, if you have any suggestions or preferences drop me a note. That means you. Yes, you.
> 
> As per usual, send me love, send me hate, send me whatever random stuff you want at sparklefree.tumblr.com.

It was shaping up to be a bad day.

 “Well, if you change your mind…” the client – Daniel Grimes – held out a card toward Sherlock.  He’d arrived at the crack of dawn, leading Sherlock to pull John from bed to come and listen to the client’s story. 

Daniel was the sole owner of a small woodworking shop on the north side of London, and when he had arrived at his shop the day before, all of his tools had been stolen.  John had fervently hoped this client would interest Sherlock, but as he told his story, Sherlock had leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes.

John gripped Daniel loosely by the elbow and offered him a tight smile as he took the card in Sherlock’s place.  Daniel was nearly a foot taller than him, John guessed, and he had to crane his neck to meet the man’s eyes.

“We’re very sorry, but we are quite busy at the moment,” John said.  He heard Sherlock shift in his chair behind him, but didn’t turn to look.  “I can give you the name of a good DI if you’d like – “Sherlock definitely snorted at that, “- and we’ll get in touch with you if anything changes on our end,” John said pointedly, glancing at Sherlock over his shoulder.  Sherlock didn’t bother to look at him, and John exhaled slowly, pressing his lips in annoyance before turning back to Daniel.

John led the way down the stairs to the front door.  The sun was barely over the horizon, the steps illuminated by the small slip of light that shone through the window by the door.  John could hear Daniel muttering to himself behind him.

“Do you think Mr. Holmes might change his mind?  I thought he specialized in helping people,” Daniel tried.  Most people thought appealing to John would work, if appealing to Sherlock directly didn’t.  Go for the ‘better half’, he guessed.

John fought the urge to laugh.  “Sherlock specializes in cases the police can’t solve.  I’m sure the Met will be able to help you with your B and E.”

“I guess.”  Daniel didn’t sound convinced, and truthfully, John wasn’t either.

John pulled open the front door and stepped aside.  He glanced at Mrs. Hudson’s door across the hall, but it remained closed.  He had no doubt that she was listening, though, and he shook his head to himself as Daniel walked past.

“Well, good luck,” John said lamely.  “We’ll give you a call if anything changes.”

Daniel nodded to him, offering a tight smile, before he stepped outside.  John closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson’s door opened and she peaked out.  “Well?”

John shook his head, and she sighed.  “Oh, dear, I was hoping that one-“

They were cut off by the sound of Sherlock’s violin.  “We all were,” John grimaced.

“Would you like to come in for some tea, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  She took a step back and opened her door wider in invitation.  “Give him a few minutes to calm down?”

He smiled at her.  “I might be down in a bit, especially if you’ve got something stronger than tea,” he said, and she smiled wider.  She could always be counted on to have at least a bit of whiskey in when he needed it.  “For now I’d better get back up there before he blows something up.”

“That reminds me,” she said, “The wall in that kitchen –“

John grimaced.  One of Sherlock’s experiments had exploded the day before, leaving the entire flat reeking of sulfur gas and a rather large black stain that John had tried for nearly an hour to scrub off before he gave up, tossing several inventive curses Sherlock’s way.  Half of Sherlock’s equipment would need to be replaced, which seemed to be the only thing Sherlock cared about.  He’d been sulking ever since.  “I’d better go,” John said hurriedly, and gave her a nervous smile as he darted toward the stairs.

“It will be added onto your rent next month, young man,” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs after him.  He grimaced.  Just one more expense they couldn’t afford between them.

Just another reason for Sherlock to take a case.

“What the hell was that about?” John demanded as he walked back into the flat.  Sherlock didn’t bother to lower his violin or stop playing.

Sherlock waved him off.  “Petty theft, John.  Nothing of interest.”  John looked at him for a moment, and then decided he really did need tea, after all.  He walked into the kitchen.  They didn’t speak while John was making tea, and he tried to ignore the sound of Sherlock’s violin.

John poured two cups without thinking, and carried them both to the sitting room.  “And you don’t think it should be investigated,” John held out a cup of tea, and Sherlock sat his violin next to his seat and took it without looking at him.  For a long moment all John could hear was the faint sound of Mrs. Hudson’s television.

“Of course I do, just not by me.”

“You haven’t had a case in months.  Three months, to be exact.”

Pinned to the wall in the sitting room was a gigantic map of London, with pins stuck in the locations of the thefts.  Sherlock hadn’t been able to solve it, and there hadn’t been anymore thefts since that night.  John knew that it weighed heavily on Sherlock’s mind, but to refuse to take another case was childish.

Even for him.

“Three months, eight days and ten hours, to be exact,” Sherlock mimicked.  John’s left hand curled into a fist.  “Maybe I’m finding the time off relaxing,” Sherlock said, and John snorted.

“Oh, yeah, wonderfully relaxing.  Pacing in the middle of the night, playing violin doesn’t bother anyone else at all.  I’m honestly surprised that Mrs. Hudson hasn’t kicked us out,” John said, crossing his arms.

“Yes, because you’ve been perfectly pleasant.”

Well, he couldn’t argue that point.  John had taken to spending long hours at the corner pub to get away from him, if he were honest, but he hadn’t been able to fully contain his temper at home.  Sherlock was just such a child sometimes, he felt like he would go mad trying to deal with it.

“Don’t you want to know who stole the tools?” he tried.

“The criminal underclass has taken up furniture making?  Who cares, John?”  Sherlock took a sip of his tea before setting it down.

“Well, your client cares, for one.”

“Not _my_ client.”

“I just don’t understand,” he threw his hands up in the air.  “You’re not busy.  Hell, you’re not even working on any interesting experiments right now.  Sherlock, you have to help him.”

“Why should I?  I don’t want to.”

“But you can.  Do you hear yourself?”  Sherlock pursed his lips, and they stared at each other.

He knew what was wrong, and the fact that they’d never solved their last case grated on him as well, but the fact that Sherlock wasn’t out there, trying to prove that he hadn’t failed, or that he would solve the next one…. John didn’t know what to think.  And he knew better than to keep pressing Sherlock for answers he obviously didn’t want to give.  Finally John turned, crossing to his room.

He needed to get out.

\---

It hadn’t taken long to make plans, and John passed the morning in his bedroom, scouring news sites for anything that might be of interest.  Several hours passed, and he was more grateful than even he had expected when he heard footsteps on the stairs over the screech of Sherlock’s violin.  The fact that he could play so beautifully made it that much worse when he decided not to.

John walked into the sitting room to see Mrs. Hudson trying in vain to clean the stain off the kitchen wall.  She glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock, who was clearly ignoring her.

“Right, not at all childish,” John informed him.  Sherlock shrugged, but changed from his screeching melody to Vivaldi without pausing.  John thought it might be indulging him too much to thank him, and instead turned to the door as the footsteps arrived on the landing.

Mrs. Hudson turned as Lestrade opened the door. 

“Has there been a murder?” she asked.

“Rugby,” Sherlock answered for Lestrade without looking up.

“A rugby player’s been murdered?” she asked, looking hopeful.  John chuckled as he crossed the room.

“No, we’re going to watch a rugby match at the pub,” he told her.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mrs. Hudson said, and Lestrade glanced at her, brows creased.

“Don’t you have anything?” she muttered to him, glancing at the back of Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock sighed.

“I’ll, uh, keep you informed.  Well, we better get going,” Lestrade said.

“We have a television,” Sherlock interjected, glancing at John while still sliding the bow across the strings.  “There’s no need for you to go to the pub.”

Lestrade grinned.  “Did you really just suggest we drink beer and watch sports in your sitting room?”

Sherlock paused.  “No, on second thought, that’s a terrible idea.”

Lestrade nodded.  “Good.  We can’t commiserate about you if you’re there, after all.” He paused, his smile slowly fading as he looked over the map on the wall.  “I heard about this,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped closer.  “What’s got you so fascinated by it? B and E’s,” he said, “Not usually your thing.”

“The issue is more with the nature of the thefts than the contents themselves,” Sherlock admitted.  He sat his violin aside, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers in front of his lips.  “If these people are able to move undetected and are still successful even with me watching –“ Lestrade rolled his eyes, but Sherlock ignored him, “- then what else are they capable of?”

“Another criminal on par with Moriarty?” Lestrade asked, looking concerned.

“Possibly,” Sherlock said, shrugging.  He sat back his chair, crossing his legs and gesturing lazily.  “So far they have operated without that level of brutality, but if cornered, who knows what they will do.”

“And you still intend to be the one cornering them?” Lestrade asked.  John winced as Sherlock glared at him, lifting his violin once more.

“Of course,” he said as he began to play.

John took that as a dismissal.  “Come on,” he said to Lestrade, jerking his head toward the door.

Mrs. Hudson started out the door first, and John stepped aside to let Lestrade go out the door in front of him.  He looked at Sherlock, who was sat in his chair, staring morosely at the map on the wall, and his frustration lessened, a bit.

“Think about taking that case, alright?” John said softly.

Sherlock nodded, waving him off impatiently.

John turned and walked down the stairs in silence.

\---

“He’s still sulking.”

John sighed as he slid into the seat across from Lestrade, a beer in hand.  The pub was already packed, all the seats even remotely close to the televisions already taken.  John didn’t mind being next to the long row of windows, though; looking out into the darkened street, he felt calmer than he had for days. 

“Move it, you fucking cunt.”

He grimaced as a group of young men, pushing at each other, walked past their table cursing and laughing.  John tried to refocus on the conversation.  “I know he’s sulking.  I’m fairly certain that it’s pathological.  And I’m also fairly certain that you knew that already,” John said pointedly.

Lestrade held up his hands, chuckling.  “Fine, fine.  No discussing his Highness.”

John sighed.  “I’m just frustrated,” he said, rubbing his eyebrow.  “You have no idea.”

“Oh trust me, I do.”

John nodded, after a moment.  Sometimes John forgot that Lestrade had known Sherlock much longer than he had.  “Yeah, I guess you do.  You don’t have anything for him?”

Lestrade shook his head, taking a drink of his beer.  “Not unless you’re willing to go out and off someone to get him out of a slump.”

John shook his head, chuckling.  “He’d know it was me right away.”

“Good to know you have such moral objections to the idea.  Anything I tried to give him now, he’d think of was out of pity, anyway.”

John nodded, looking down.  “What _do_ you have, right now?” he asked.

Lestrade sat his drink down, ticking off on his fingers as he spoke, “Right now we’ve got a man who was shot during a mugging, a woman who was strangled during a break-in, and a woman who stabbed her boyfriend for texting ‘I love you’ to a woman who turned out to be his mother.”

“The break-in?” John asked.

“We’ve got a lead.  It looks promising.  I can keep you up to date if you’d like, but…” he trailed off, shrugging.

John grimaced.  “You really don’t have anything.”

“And I thought we came here so you could get _away_ from Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

“Right, right,” John said, leaning back in his seat.  His phone chirped once, and he lifted it to see nothing but an address on the screen.  He smiled at Lestrade apologetically, already reaching for his jacket as he stood.  “Rain check?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade waved him off, smiling.  “Maybe he’s found something and will stop being such an ass, yeah?  Or less of one, at least,” he amended.

John laughed.  “We can only hope.”

The sky was getting dark, despite it being early afternoon still. As he stepped outside John ducked his head as rain began to splash on the pavement.

The first two cabs passed him by, but the third stopped.  He climbed in, glancing down at his phone as he typed.

_I’m on my way._

\---

A half an hour later, John arrived at the crime scene.  Sherlock was there, standing just outside his own taxi, leaning back in to say something to the driver.  John shielded his eyes as he looked up at the building, waiting for Sherlock to finish.

A carved wooden sign hung near the road, and the entire exterior of the building had been renovated to reflect the trade.  Not a bad way to advertise his talents, John supposed.  He wondered – not for the first time – what had made Sherlock change his mind about the case.

“Well, this looks like the place.”  Sherlock strode toward the building, and John hurried to keep up.

Sherlock stopped on the brick steps, leaning over to look at the grass beneath the window to the right, and John walked past.  He knocked once, and the door jerked open to reveal a very relieved looking Daniel.

“Thank you so much for coming.  Mr. Holmes,” Daniel said, smiling tightly in his direction.  Sherlock ignored him.

“When was the last time you clipped your grass?” Sherlock asked finally.

“Um, I don’t know.  I pay a man to do it.  I think he comes on Thursdays?” Daniel said, frowning.  He looked at John, as though he expected him to be able to explain Sherlock’s quirks.  John just shrugged at him.

“The grass hasn’t been clipped in at least two weeks.  And there are fresh prints under your window, and the footprints are too small to be yours.  Do you have a girlfriend?”  Sherlock looking him over and curled his lip.  “Oh, what am I saying, of course you don’t.”

Sherlock turned away again, ignoring Daniel’s stuttered ‘hey!’  John smiled at him sympathetically.  He hoped at the very least, they would still get paid. 

Sherlock hopped the brick divider, dropping a couple feet down onto the overgrown grass.  He knelt down.  John, for his part, leaned over the wall to watch him work.  “Right,” Sherlock pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them on.  “The thief is a short woman, shoe size 4.”

“How do you know she’s short?” John asked, just to see Sherlock smile slightly.

“Right here, under the window, there’s imprints on either side that sunk in.  She used a ladder, and left it here to ease her escape.  It sunk in slightly during the time she was inside.  Now,” he paused long enough to push the window up, “The window was unlocked.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Daniel said.  Sherlock hoisted himself through the window easily, and Daniel and John scrambled through the front door to follow.

The entrance hall was pleasantly decorated, with a high arched ceiling and polished oak floor.

“I specialize in furniture, but I also do architectural joinings,” Daniel was explaining as he led John inside. “My tools are my life, Dr. Watson.”

“I understand.”

Daniel led the way into the front room, where Sherlock was standing.  He was in the center of the room, turning in slow circles, frowning.  John wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking; wished he could see what he saw.  Sherlock’s eyes were darting from one object to the next, no doubt tracing their criminal through the building in his mind.

Daniel looked confused.  “What –“

“Don’t,” Sherlock said.  Daniel shot a puzzled look at John, but waited patiently.

The wall opposite the windows was lined with large ornate wooden cabinets.  Sherlock crossed to one and tugged at the door, but it didn’t budge.

John heard the tinkling of keys next to him as Daniel pulled them from his pocket and stepped forward.  “I keep the cabinets locked at all times,” he said, pushing up his glasses with his free hand as he held out the keys to Sherlock.  “They were all locked the night of the theft, too.”

“You’re certain?” Sherlock asked, taking the keys.

“Yeah.  I checked them myself before I went home.”

“No sign of forced entry,” Sherlock said.

“How did you know this is where I store my tools?” Daniel asked.  Sherlock unlocked the cabinet and threw open both doors.

“I knew they were in this room because you have two dehumidifiers in the room to maintain the quality of the tools.  These handles are darker than the rest – they appear recently polished, due to the fact that when you open these doors, you still have traces of the mineral oil used to clean the tools still on your hands.”

“That’s right,” Daniel said.

“I know it is,” Sherlock replied, without looking at him.  “Now, as to the contents.”  He leaned closer.  John looked over his shoulder; he tried to spot anything out of the ordinary, but it looked like any other cabinet, to him.

“How will you find whoever did this?” Daniel asked.

“Is there anyone else in the area who does the same work?” John asked.  “It might be helpful if we could get some names.”

“There are others, sure,” Daniel said.  “I have the largest shop in the area, but mostly we work together to promote the craft.  Most people would rather buy factory made cheap pieces that will fall apart in a few years than invest in a fine handcrafted piece for their home, you see.”

John didn’t know how to respond, so he settled on nodding.  That seemed well enough for Daniel, who reached for a small pad of paper and a pen on a nearby desk and began to jot down names.

 “Here,” Sherlock said, and they both turned to see him triumphantly holding up a long, brown hair.

“I didn’t see anything.  How did you find that?” Daniel asked, clearly amazed.  Sherlock smiled tightly.

“Because I was looking for it,” he said simply. “The world is full of obvious things which nobody ever observes,” he pulled a small Ziploc bag from one of his pockets, carefully placing the hair inside.  “Now, John, I believe we have a stop to make on the way home.”

He turned to the door without saying anything else, and John said a hasty goodbye and grabbed the names from Daniel before following to where Sherlock’s cab was still waiting at the curb.

Sherlock was quiet in the cab, looking down at the small bag in his lap.  John had already called Molly to arrange for her to meet them in the lab at St. Bart’s.  She’d agreed quickly, just like he thought she would.  John spent a large part of the cab ride looking for any information on the names Daniel had given him, but came up with nothing.  Holden Skinner, Sandra Lake and Geoffrey Pittman turned up banal advertisements for their talents, while Morgan Carter turned up nothing at all.  John looked up from his phone with a sigh.

“What do you think it is?” he asked Sherlock.

“The hair?” Sherlock asked, curling his lip.

“Of course not the hair,” John said, fighting the urge to laugh.  “Even I can see that it’s not the most important thing you saw back there.  So tell me what was.”

“How did the thief get into the building, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Through the window.”

Sherlock smiled at him.  “But the window was locked.”

“Someone unlocked it while the shop was open?” John suggested.

“Yet our client checked it before leaving for the evening.”

John thought for a moment.  “I don’t know,” he said finally.

“That’s what we need to find out.”  Sherlock turned, looking out the window, and John left him to his thoughts.

\---

“It’s good to see you, Molly,” John said as he walked into the lab.  She was smiling, already in her lab coat and ready to work.  “Sorry to call you in on your day off.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” she said immediately.  Sherlock took the bag from his coat pocket before shrugging out of his coat, leaving over the back of the chair before moving toward where the equipment was stored.  “I’m not allowed to let you use the lab equipment anymore, Sherlock,” Molly said, quiet but determined.

“And why is that?” Sherlock asked as he walked over to the counter.  Molly stepped in front of him, chin tilted up, and he looked down at her, surprised.

“You break enough of it, and some of our equipment has disappeared.”

“Borrowed.”

“Borrowed implies you’re bringing it back,” she said.  She held out her hand to Sherlock, who placed the bag in it without speaking.  He was watching it intently, and John knew it was only because it was her that he was willing to hand it over at all.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, holding it up.

“At a crime scene.  Can you run a full DNA test?  See if anything comes up?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug.  “It won’t be hard to do.  Do you think they’re in any databases?”

“Not likely, but at the very least we can place them at this scene when we eventually do catch them.  We’ll be back in approximately four hours to check the results.”

“I won’t be here,” Molly said. 

Sherlock stopped, looking at her.  “What?”

"Well, it’ll be quite late by then, and I have plans later," Molly said.  She looked down at the table, scraping at the edge with her thumbnail.

“What plans?” Sherlock asked, and John elbowed him hard while Molly took the bag over to the counter and began setting up her equipment.

“I have a life outside the two of you,” she said pointedly.  John could see her hands were shaking slightly, and she was still determinedly not looking at them.  “I’ll text one of you when I have the results.  It might be tonight, and if not, it’ll be tomorrow.”

Sherlock sighed, and John shot him a warning look.  “It’s not that important anyway,” Sherlock conceded.  John gave him a tight smile, and he simply rolled his eyes in response.  “We have more important things to consider at this junction, anyway.”

Molly looked over her shoulder then, smiling at them both.  “Well, good luck in your investigation.”

“Thanks,” John said as they headed for the door.  Sherlock was silent, waving over his shoulder.  His phone made a noise, and he pulled it out of his pocket as John held the door open for them both.

“So, Molly has plans that don’t involve us,” John said, smiling as they walked down the hall.  “Maybe she’s finally getting over you.”

“Yes, hopefully it won’t be too terribly destructive this time.”

John frowned.  “That’s not fair, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed.  “You have nothing to fear, at any rate: Molly’s plans involve watching Netflix with a bottle of wine and her cat Toby,” Sherlock said without looking up from his phone.  He was frowning down at it.

“Still, not you,” John said.

“Yes, yes, good for her,” Sherlock muttered, waving at him without looking.

“What is it?” John asked.  “Lestrade?”

“No.  The number’s blocked.”

“What’s it say?” John asked as he pushed the front door open.  The rain was pouring, and Sherlock stuck his phone into his pocket.

“It’s just an address,” he said.

“Sounds familiar,” John said with a chuckle.  He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky.  And to think, he had expected the day to be boring.  He looked over at Sherlock.  “I take it we’re going?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said with a smile as he climbed into the cab first. 

“Right, of course,” John said as he got in behind him.  “Who do you think it is?”

“I have no idea.”  Sherlock seemed pleased by that.  John just leaned back in his seat, glad that he’d taken to keeping his gun on him at all times, at least.

He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock looked over the text once more.

Sherlock glanced up, smiling slightly when he caught John’s eye.

John frowned when he realized where they were.

“What the hell could be going on at the docks that needs us at this time of night?” John asked.

“Hopefully we’re about to ambushed by the criminal underclass.”

“You really are bored, aren’t you?” John said.  He got out of the cab first.  The air smelled of the fresh rain that continued to pour down around them and the heady mixture of fish and rot which lingered at the river’s edge.  He looked around, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  Yet.

“Put it on my tombstone,” Sherlock said as he walked around the cab to stand next to him.

“Right, like we’re paying for another one,” John said, and Sherlock’s smile faltered.  He glanced down, ducking his head against the rain.

“Follow me,” he muttered.  He turned toward the row of buildings.  The cab pulled away, and as the area grew darker, John realized that he would hardly be able to see anything.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.  A hand closed on his elbow, and Sherlock pulled him toward the buildings.

A light illuminated a small porch off one of the buildings, and Sherlock pulled John behind a row of trash cans, peering around the edge.  John looked over the top.

He could see three people, standing to the left of the light.  The sound of the rain hitting the pavement made it impossible to tell what they were saying, but he could see that two of the three were female, though he couldn’t make out much else.

He rested his hand on the can in front of him and it toppled, rolling down the small hill, and John tumbled forward.

Two of the figures were already gone when John looked up again, and the last, one of the women, was standing frozen, clutching something to her chest.  She stepped backward as Sherlock pulled John to his feet, then darted toward the docks.

“What the hell is going on?” John muttered to himself.  Sherlock tore off, on her heels already, but she struck him with something and he faltered long enough for her to disappear from John’s sight completely.  Sherlock regained his balance quickly and ran in the direction she’d headed.

Yeah, it really was shaping up to be a bad day.

John darted after him, trying to keep an eye on him in the downpour and trying to see where exactly the woman in front of him had gone.  But it was impossible, the rain was too heavy, and like always, he was following Sherlock blindly.

Sherlock turned a corner in front of him.

John slowed as he turned the corner, whipping his head from side to side.  The road ran along the docks, and there were buildings to his left.  He couldn’t see anything, and he had no way of knowing which way they had gone.  He cursed.

His heart was pounding.  Where was Sherlock?  Which way had they gone?  He wiped impatiently at his eyes; he could barely see through the pouring rain and he cursed again.

He could hear shoes clattering on a wooden dock, and ran forward, turning onto the first dock he could see.  He nearly faltered when his feet first left the pavement and struck the wood, and he paused, squinting in front of him.

He turned back, running along the pavement at the water’s edge.  He’d seen someone go this way, he was certain of it.  He paused, whipping his head around, trying to see something, anything when a sound made him freeze.

A gunshot.

“Sherlock!”  He ran toward the sound.  Farther down the road, much farther than he’d been looking.  He tried to steady his breathing as he ran, but his heart was pounding and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to make it in time.

He could hear sirens in the distance, but knew they wouldn’t make it in time.  He saw someone in front of him, but could barely make out the shape.  He reached for his Sig, but paused.  “Sherlock?” he called, but he knew that he wouldn’t be heard over the wind.  He ran forward, cursing over his breath.  The wood swayed beneath his feet with a groan.  He blinked rapidly, trying to wipe the water out of his eyes.

Where were they?  He couldn’t see.  He couldn’t _see -_

He darted forward again, but the entire structure groaned under his weight, and twisted to the side.  John let out a shout as he tumbled off the edge.

He saw the shadowy figure turn and watch him as he fell.

As he plunged into the icy cold water, he thought he heard a voice screaming his name.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late – I felt a bit sick this week, and instead of writing spent a ton of time reading comic books and sleeping :(

Something was beeping.

John struggled to open his eyes.  His head throbbed, and after a moment of trying to turn his head, he stopped.  The pain was unbearable.  There was a faint buzzing coming from somewhere.  He kept his eyes closed and attempted to assess the situation.  The room smelled strongly of a combination of antiseptic and mold.

He pressed his tongue to the hard plastic of the breathing tube in place, fighting the urge to cough around it.  It felt like he was choking, and he fought against the rising panic, forcing his breathing to steady.  He shifted his leg experimentally, and realized he had a catheter placed, as well.  He wondered how long he’d been out.  He shifted his leg again, and slid his arms over the cool sheets, ignoring the stabbing pain in his fingers at the movement.  Pain was good; he was fairly certain he hadn’t lost any body parts to the cold, at least.  Something was tugging at his wrists; he shifted again and realized he was in four point restraints.  Had he been combative?  It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

He opened his eyes, squinting up at the ceiling.  Where was he?  He was familiar with most of the hospitals in the area, partly thanks to his association with Sherlock, but it didn’t look like any hospital room he could remember being in. 

He could see the top of the door on his left without turning his head, and the buzzing grew louder.

Was someone whispering?

He tried to call out, and ended up making a soft groaning noise around the tube.  His chest ached.  He could hear footsteps in the room with him, but he couldn’t see anyone.  As the footsteps came closer, images flashed through his mind: an IV being inserted into his arm, then strange symbols he couldn’t make out.  His head was pounding.

The footsteps faded away, and the buzzing stopped a moment later.

Darkness was creeping into the edge of his vision.  His heart began to pound and he heart the heart monitor quicken.  He had to stay awake.  He tried to focus his vision on the room, on any detail he may be able to use to identify his location.

He could see cardboard taped over the top of one of the windows. The curtains were the same old fabric that he had seen over the years in cheap hotel rooms across Europe.  He wondered if he was even in England.

The whispering was back.  He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t make out any words.

The door opened.

Footsteps approached the bed quickly, and he squeezed his eyes shut as images overwhelmed him – he could see himself in the bed, pale, then younger, then a series of incomprehensible images.  He cracked his eyes open.

He could barely make out long brown hair before hands landed on his upper arms, and he whimpered – pain, fear, anger all laced through him at once.  The heart monitor raced as the room faded to black once more.  The whispering grew louder before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

\---

“Is… is he waking up?”

John groaned, pain seeping into his consciousness as he awoke.  The world seemed fuzzy, and his head was pounding.  Fear, anger, and relief flooded through him in equal measure, leaving him tired and confused.

“John?”

He turned his head slightly to see Sherlock sitting to his left.  Molly and Lestrade stood behind him, which struck John as strange.  How long had he been out?

“Yeah,” he said, his throat dry.  He swallowed, remembering the feel of dry plastic in his mouth.

His head was still throbbing.  “What day is it?” he asked.

“Thursday,” Sherlock said.  “You’ve been out for most of a day.”

“A day?” That was it?  “Felt like longer,” he slurred.  Images were passing through his mind too quickly for him to focus on.  He wondered if he had a concussion.

“Drugs’ll do that to you,” Lestrade said.  He stepped around Sherlock to sit gingerly at the end of John’s bed.  He hated it – hated that they moved around him like some fragile thing that would break at any moment.  Molly moved to his other side, so he was surrounded.  “How are you feeling?” Lestrade went on.

A rush of images – himself, pale and listless in bed, a purple bruise blossoming over his left eye.  Sherlock was looking him over sharply.

"He probably feels like he fell in a river."

John chuckled.  “Yeah.” 

Lestrade looked confused.  “Yeah, what?”

John looked between them, his smile fading.  “I feel like I fell in a river,” he said slowly.

“And hit your head rather hard,” Sherlock added.  Images were still swirling in his mind, whispers of voices he couldn’t quite hear.

“Yeah, feels like that too.  Concussed?” John asked.

“Mildly,” Sherlock said.  He scooted forward and reached for something in his coat pocket.  “Now, after you fell, I found –“

“He doesn’t want to hear about all that right now, Sherlock,” Molly scolded.  “Let him wake up.”

“And get someone in here to look at him,” Lestrade added.  He stood.  “I’ll let the nurse know he’s awake.”

“Are you really feeling alright?” Molly asked.  As she leaned closer the images in his head grew more vivid, and he groaned, closing his eyes.

“Just concussed, I guess,” he muttered.  He opened his eyes to see her frowning down at him, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt.  He wanted to ask why they were all there, but he didn’t have the energy to try and frame it in a way that wouldn’t sound horrid.

The images were forming in to vague pictures of foods – sandwiches, salads – and coffee.

“I think I might be hungry,” he said.  Confusion laced through him – but that was normal with a concussion, he could remember that much.

“I know I am,” Molly said with a slight smile.  “Why don’t I pick something up for you?  The food here is horrid,” she said.  John started to nod, but grimaced when the pain laced through his head at the movement.

“Anything is fine,” he said instead.

“Sherlock?”

“No.”  Sherlock was still watching him closely.

Molly paused at the doorway, turning to look back at them.  “Leave him be, Sherlock,” she said.  Then she was gone.

“When did she become your mum?” John asked, smirking.

Sherlock shrugged.  “I suspect around the time she realized she’d never be my girlfriend.”

“Now that she’s gone, what did you find?” he asked, pushing the button to raise the head of his bed.

John closed his eyes, listening as Sherlock described the box he’d found – the woman he’d been chasing had dropped it, he explained, and though he lost sight of her, he at least managed to find out what they’d been trading.  “From a theft, I suspect,” Sherlock said.  John opened his eyes to see Sherlock pull a vial from his pocket.  “I haven’t had the contents checked, I’ve obviously been busy.  That’s why Molly was here, though she seems to have forgotten why I called her.”

Except Sherlock’s lips weren’t moving.

John blinked again, slowly.  Sherlock was still looking down at his hands, unmoving.  “Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock looked up then with a small smile, putting his hands back in his pockets.  “Perhaps it would be better if I told you later.”

John tried to look around the room, fighting a rising panic.  “Where am I?  Are you really here?”  He suddenly felt the need to be grounded in reality, as though his mind was floating away.

“Relax, John.  Disassociation is a common side effect of head injuries.”

“Did you just say that?”  He could hear a note of panic in his own voice.

“Of course I said it,” Sherlock looked alarmed, his fingers inching toward the call button.  “John, calm down!”  Sherlock started to rise from his chair, and John forced himself to take several deep breaths.

“Tell me exactly what happened.  Tell me everything, right now," he said, and Sherlock nodded jerkily.

“You… you fell in the river, nearly eleven o’clock last evening, I would say.  I didn’t realize right away,” Sherlock grimaced, looking down at his hands, “But once I realized you weren’t there I called 999.  A search team found you on a river bank.  You were cold – I thought,” he broke off, clearing his throat.  “Well, you were alive, at any rate.”

“How long?”  John struggled to keep his eyes open, trying to focus on Sherlock’s words.  Images of himself on the beach, laying on his side, his pale face illuminated by the beam of a flashlight.  Shaking fingers reaching past his blue lips to check his pulse.

“An hour.”

“You thought I was dead.”

“Wouldn’t you?”  Sherlock smiled tightly, but John could still see an image of himself being rolled onto his back, clasped hands pressing on his chest as Sherlock began CPR.  His clothes were only damp; he’d washed ashore almost immediately.

How did he know that?

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image grew stronger so he opened them, trying to focus on Sherlock in front of him.  “Don’t stop talking.”

“I rode here in the ambulance with you.  They did CPR, then hooked you up to this breathing machine.”

“Mechanical ventilation,” John murmured.

Sherlock nodded, then went on, talking about the admission, having to stay in the waiting room, and John began to relax.  Sherlock’s voice drowned out his thoughts – or at least coincided with them enough that John couldn’t distinguish between them.

Sherlock was beginning to look concerned once more, but before he could ask John what was going on again, Lestrade pushed open the door, followed closely by a nurse.  She approached the edge of the bed, and Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the arm, coaxing him out of the room.  Sherlock frowned at John over his shoulder, and John held up a placating hand as Lestrade closed the door behind them.

“What do you remember?” the nurse asked once they were alone.

John paused, trying to think.  “I remember waking up in a hospital room.”

“Right,” the nurse said.  “You were brought here by ambulance from the river.”

“I wasn’t in this room.  I think I was somewhere else.”

“You came straight here,” she assured him.

The images faded to a dull   background noise, with Sherlock out of the room.  She was distracted, images of another patient flitting through her mind – covered mostly in bandages, a burn victim – he wouldn’t make it.  She was thinking of how to tell him family when he passed.

His head throbbed, and he pressed a hand to it, hissing.  A hand landed on his shoulder and he felt a flood of emotions – worry, sadness.  “Do you need anything for the pain?”

He shook his head no, gritting his teeth.  He didn’t want anything else slowing his thoughts; he was already so confused. Because it almost seemed like…

He could hear _their_ thoughts.  Laughter bubbled up in him, a nervous, panicky barking sound that tore free from his throat.  “Maybe… maybe just a little.  Something for the pain, I mean,” he said.

She nodded and pressed the button on the PCA pump next to his bed.  A moment later, he felt his muscles start to relax and the images running through his head began to fade, somewhat.

Sherlock came back in a minute later, Lestrade and Molly behind him.

“What happened?” Sherlock said briskly.  Molly was standing behind him, peering around him to look down at John, face pale.

“Is he alright?”

John jerked again.  Molly’s thoughts were a swirl of images, while Sherlock’s were a running narration of everything that happened as John fell unconscious once more.

\---

Three days passed before John was allowed to leave the hospital, but in retrospect, he wondered if that was a good thing.  The nurses kept him fairly drugged, and the images from their thoughts – _their thoughts,_ he nearly panicked again just thinking of it – were kept at bay, a buzzing irritation in the back of his mind.  There was no denying it was there, but it gave him time to think, at least.

He couldn’t fathom what had happened to him.  The timeline was fuzzy, and physically, he couldn’t fathom it – it shouldn’t be possible. 

During his hospital stay Sherlock came and went, but when he was there John was unable to focus on anything but the tsunami of his thoughts.  Sherlock was a little more subdued on feelings – he didn’t seem to panic as easily as the others, at least - but they ran the gauntlet of worry, boredom, and excitement just the same.  It was exhausting. 

Finally they allowed him home, with the promise of responsible supervision.  He assumed Mrs. Hudson would be providing it.

Now, settled in his chair with a book in hand, he let his mind wander to the things he’d learned so far.  He could tell the difference between other people based on their thought patterns.  Sherlock was a combination of words and images rushing past.  John was able to process it, but it was difficult.

Whenever he had that thought, he wondered if life would ever go back to normal.

The others didn’t think in words, exactly – it wasn’t like listening to a radio broadcast, but more like being immersed in in an uncontrollable stream of images.

It felt like drowning.

Mrs. Hudson came up frequently, dropping off food and bringing him drinks.  Sherlock had sat himself in his chair, pouring over something on John’s laptop.  John tried to follow his train of thought, but it was like picking at a knotted cord, and after a while he excused himself to his room.

The quiet of his bedroom seemed eerie after the constant noise of everyone else’s thoughts.  If he closed his eyes and felt for it, he could still feel Sherlock’s thoughts, though muted, and it brought him a strange measure of comfort.  As he laid on his bed, he wondered why it was so easy to get used to this.

Only a few minutes passed before his door opened, and Sherlock walked inside without saying anything.  He eased himself to sit on the edge of John’s bed, carefully, as though he might break, his eyes never leaving John’s face.  That was another thing he hated about this situation.  Sherlock, as a rule, _didn’t_ react as though John couldn’t handle himself once the danger had passed.  If anything, he was there too early, pushing him up, back on his feet, always marching onward.  Not having that pressure felt wrong, and he felt a bit like a petulant child as he refused to shift over enough to give Sherlock proper room.  _Make me,_ he wanted to say.  _Please._

“There’s something wrong about you,” Sherlock said after a moment.

“You can’t figure it out?” John asked.  Even though he’d been just sitting around the flat all day, he was still so tired.

“I can’t,” Sherlock admitted, and that seemed to worry him more than anything.  John rolled onto his side, and for a moment they just looked at each other, lost in their own thoughts.

_-Tired, withdrawn, depressed, anxious-_

“Stop thinking, it’s annoying,” John said around a yawn.  Sherlock chuckled, and John let himself smile.

_He’s in good humour, at least._   John chuckled at that.

Hearing Sherlock’s thoughts, maybe that was okay, he decided.  They were more pointed than the others, more focused.  And he was so tired of always being ten steps behind.

There was always the option, of course, that he tell Sherlock.  But every time he tried to put it into words, they seemed too bizarre to speak.  Nothing had shown up on his MRI; he’d been released from the hospital in perfect health.

John cracked an eye open.  Sherlock’s feelings still held a tendril of worry.  “There’s nothing wrong about me,” he said, and he wondered if it was true.  It certainly didn’t feel wrong.

Sherlock didn’t say anything to that, but his thoughts were still too loud, too pointed, his observations running round in circles.  He was stuck, and John still couldn’t say anything.  He drifted off to sleep, instead.

When he awoke again he was alone, and long afternoon shadows covered the floor.  Voices and images were coming from the sitting room.

“You don’t have to come, of course.”  Lestrade.  John was getting images of a body – a young man in a suit, sprawled on a white sofa.  No blood stains.

“Why wouldn’t I come?” Sherlock answered, and John saw images of himself in the hospital bed again in response.

“Well, I just thought, with John, you know…” Lestrade trailed off.

“I’m fine,” John said as he opened his door.  They both turned to look at him, and he forced himself to smile.  He could see through their observations how pale and drawn he looked.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Lestrade asked, skeptically.

“Of course he is,” Sherlock said with a small smile directed his way.  He was bouncing on his toes, already overcome with excitement.  It must have been excruciating for him, having to wait so many days while John recovered.  Experiencing his frustration second hand had been difficult enough.

“John?” Lestrade asked.

“Let’s get going.”

He couldn’t help but smile when he realized what would happen.  What he would be able to do.

This was going to be fun.

\---

He knew the address before they arrived.  Knew that the victim was Ryan Leon, a 32 year old stock broker, that he’d been strangled with a belt that had not been left at the scene.

Sherlock was still looking at his phone, pouring over the information Lestrade had text to him, while John looked over the image of the victim in his mind, taking the information Sherlock acquired and applying it as needed.  It was efficient, but a bit difficult to manage.

Sherlock led the way into the building as per usual, and John was content to stay back, effectively ignored by everyone.  The room seemed to be overflowing with noise, though he knew it would seem eerily quiet to anyone else.  Sherlock wasn’t talking, examining the body, but his thoughts were loud and razor sharp, setting John’s teeth on edge.

But Sherlock wasn’t saying any of it.  John frowned; he thought Sherlock was beyond withholding evidence.  This wasn’t going to get them anywhere.  He bit his tongue.

“Any witnesses?” Sherlock asked Lestrade, who was hovering in the doorway.

“No, but his sister is the one who found the body,” Lestrade said.  “She’s in the kitchen.”

John trailed behind Sherlock, only half listening as Lestrade explained how the sister had found the body that morning.  The victim’s phone had several missed calls from her the night before, and an active call around 10 p.m.

The woman was sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, hunched over, her fingers curled loosely around a glass.  She was scuffing her boots on the white tile, sniffling.  When she looked up, her pale face was blotchy, her cheeks and nose red.

“Are you more cops?” she mumbled, her eyes dropping to look at the floor once more.

“Not quite,” Sherlock said.  “Tell us what happened when you found the body.  Don’t leave anything out.”  Sherlock pulled off the gloves he’d used, dropping them in the trash can as he spoke.  She stared down, licking her lips.

“I tried to call my brother last night.  I… I wanted to ask him a question.”

“About?” Sherlock prompted.

“A business I’d invested in hasn’t been doing well.  When I got here this morning he didn’t answer, but the door wasn’t locked.  When I came inside…” she trailed off, gesturing toward the living room.  Twin tears ran down her cheeks, but she made no noise.

Images of a fight ran through John’s mind; an older man, screaming at the victim, slamming a stack of papers on the counter.  John glanced over to see them still sitting there; she’d been there, John realized.

“Was anyone angry at your brother?  Anyone else upset with his investing advice?”

She looked in Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, then back at the floor.  “No.  Excuse me, I need…” she slipped off the stool, stumbling a few steps before one of the police officers stepped forward to help her out of the room.

“She’s lying,” John murmured.  Sherlock glanced at him with a frown.

“I realize that,” Sherlock turned as she was led out of the room.  “What do you think happened, then,” Sherlock prompted.  Indulging him, as usual.  John smiled.

He took a deep breath.  “A man was here. I," he licked his lips, "I think she saw him, strangling her brother.  So it's someone she knows, someone she's close to - another family member." Their uncle, but John couldn't find a way to say that without it being too fantastic. He hoped he hadn't crossed that line already. "They’d been fighting about money,” he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on what he’d seen, “There.  By the window, there’s a stack of papers he left.  He brought them with him yesterday – his address is on the top.  He wouldn’t have brought them if he’d been planning to fight.  He’s scared, and has no real plans.  He probably hasn’t left familiar territory yet.”

John opened his eyes.  The police who had been coming in and out of the room were all standing around, watching him.  Lestrade was texting someone, alternating between looking at his phone and looking at John curiously.

"There's a name on the paper," Donovan said. 

“Run the name,” Lestrade told the officer nearest to him.  “Find out where he works.  Let’s check his home,” Lestrade said.  “How did you do that?” Lestrade was looking at him wide-eyed, and John clearly caught the words _like a magic trick_ in his thoughts before they devolved back into strings of images. 

“You’ve been hanging out with _him_ too long, mate,” Donovan said, clapping him on the shoulder, but she was smiling at him.

“Yes, how _did_ you do that?” Sherlock murmured, too low for the others to hear.

John’s enthusiasm deflated a bit.  He hadn’t meant to steal the show from Sherlock, but he had to admit, it felt good.  “Just lucky I guess,” he said, his voice coming out slightly breathless.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything else.  John could feel the confusion coming off him in waves, and he turned away to look around the room instead.  He wondered briefly if this was how Sherlock felt all the time.

Pain exploded in the back of his head, and he doubled over with a gasp.

Hands gripped his forearms and he was guided to a nearby chair.  When he was able to open his eyes, the world swam in front of him.  Sherlock was standing next to him, looking over the room, his lips twisted.

“What happened?”

Sherlock ignored his question.  Lestrade walked over, looking between them curiously.  “You have what you need,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered, even though it had clearly not been a question.

Sherlock nodded curtly.  “We’re leaving.”  He grabbed John by the arm, tugging him to his feet.  They walked outside in silence, and John took a deep breath as his head began to clear.

“Has he eaten today?” Lestrade asked Sherlock from behind them.

Sherlock paused, and John saw flashes of their morning before he answered, “I don’t think so, no.”

John grit his teeth.  “I’m _right here_.”

“Well, go on, then,” Lestrade gestured toward the waiting cab, “We’ll take over the legwork.  I’ll call you once we’ve found him.”

John stumbled as another image appeared in his mind.  A bag thrown open on a bed, a passport.  “He won’t be in the country long,” John said.  He focused, and the image and the pain in his head both sharpened.  “Check flights to France.”

As Sherlock gave the cab driver the address of a diner nearby, John wondered where that image had come from.


End file.
